Book of Gold
by Adali
Summary: The writing of the Book of Gold, the creation of the Chamber of the Ordeal, the first Lady Knight and Alanna's problems with a quiet retirement.
1. Two Books

A/N: After playing with a few ideas, I've settled on this one for my Tortall fiction. It has, I think, a slightly better plot than most of the other candidates, and I really only have time for one just now. Actually, I don't really have time for any, what with university looming, and my original writing, and of course I'm trying to finish, or at least continue, the Tonks story. However, here it is, in all its infant glory. The idea of using a book to tell a piece of Tortall's history I stole off Krizsta, in her Nobles Bane, although all other plot devices are my own. The characters and so on that belong to someone else, don't belong to me. Everything else, does. For reference, I'm assuming the Book of Gold, which is only ever mentioned in passing in the actual books, works something like the Doomsday book, although we can pretend it is being written for more noble reasons than taxing people.

_"Mother, you can't be serious."_

_"And why not?" the man's mother, Alanna of Pirates Swoop, Olau and Trebond demanded. "I'll have you know my father was a well noted scholar and…"_

_"I know, mother, but you hardly have the patience to write Ali, never mind a book."_

_Alanna__ grimaced. Her son was right. Time was, he wouldn't have interrupted, she thought bitterly, but Thom was all grown up now, a Master and a teacher at the Royal University, and he seemed to think that gave him some authority to interrupt his mother._

_"Perhaps it would be good for her, then." Now it was Thom's turn to grimace. Prince Liam, though a just and capable Prime Minister who was known never to show bias, would nonetheless take Alanna's side over Thom's in any debate. "And you can't deny, if Aunt Alanna puts her mind to something, she gets it done." Thom did know, for all that knowledge brought him little joy._

_"I just think…" he knew he was losing the battle._

_Alanna__ threw up her hands. "I'm just sick of people saying I'm the first female knight in Tortall. It's not right."_

_"You writing a book will hardly help that," Thom observed dryly._

_"I'm not so sure of that," Liam said, thoughtful. "The schools Mother started have improved literacy no end within Tortall. And if Auntie wrote it as a story, I'm sure a lot of people might like to read it."_

_"See?" Alanna told her son. Thom sighed, defeated. Liam might be right; the project could be good for Alanna. He had thought, when she proposed to retire last year, that she would spend her time quietly, running Olau where she and his father now lived. But if someone had been born to a knight's life, it was Alanna. Even though all her coppery hair was now grey, she still spoke, acted, and fought passionately, and her years only made her more dangerous, not less. As highly acclaimed as his brother Alan was as a swordsman, their mother could still beat him two times in three, and if ever she had a grievance, King Jonathon would be found under his bed, hiding from her. Perhaps this project would help her ease into the quiet retirement he had hoped for her._

_"Oh, very well."__ As though his saying 'no' could have stopped her. "Let me know if I can help."_

It was impossible. The man was either crazy or a genius. He would have to be, to have even dreamed of such a thing. It was amazing, exciting, tantalizing, but more than anything else, it was impossible. Whoever heard of an empire so big? To stretch from the town of Corus in the south, north into the mountains a week's ride away… the man dreamed big, there was no denying _that_.

So what was he doing here, sitting in a northern forest, trying to make that dream a reality. The gods alone knew, he thought with a sigh. But when Count Jonathan spoke, you found yourself believing in his visions, and then you did crazy things, like ride north and try to bring order to the scattered kingdoms and holdings that he hoped one day to rule over. No, not just 'one day'. Within ten years, the count had said. As though a man could conquer so much land in ten years, and hold it. Still, he had a way about him that made you believe it could happen.

It's already happening, the knight thought glumly. The holdings were responding, tentatively, to Jonathan and his men. They were starting to call him king. And so the knight had been sent out, to visit those that liked Jonathan, the ones willing to call him king, to take down names. The count, gods alone knew why, wanted a genealogy of those that joined with him, and an accounting of the laws of, for lack of a better term, his new kingdom. He called it the Book of Gold, and the knight could only assume the count meant for others to be written later, of Silver and so forth. That was the way the count thought.

"My lord." The knight looked up. One of his men stood there, rigid and awake despite the late hour. The fire between them, where the knight had been warming himself, made it difficult to see the man. Foolish of me, he thought, but he wasn't ready to give up what little warmth the flames offered.

"Yes, Jerril?" Jerril was a competent soldier. He wouldn't disturb the knight unless it was important.

"I found this, my lord." He thrust something – no, someone – forward. The person was little, but they fought hard against Jerril's firm hold. Why, it's only a child, the knight found himself thinking. "Stop it," the soldier ordered his captive, giving him a rough shake. The child stopped fighting, and subsided into a hostile silence. "He was trying to get at the horses, my lord."

"Were you now?" the knight asked. The child didn't say a word. "Why did you want to get at our horses?" He was quickly losing his control over the situation. There were ways and ways to make an adult talk, from bribery to kind words to torture, but the knight had had very few dealings with children, especially ones as young as this.

"Not tellin' you nutin'," came the sullen response.

Jerril gave the child another shake. "He was armed, my lord." In the hand not hold the child the knight saw a small bow, toy quiver, and a knife near big enough to be a sword for the child.

The knight sat back, thoughtful. He had known these northerners taught their children to fight young, but he would have sworn this child was scarce out of the cradle. "How old are you?" He'd seen others ask children that back in Corus. It seemed a reasonable enough question.

"Seven."

"You ain't never," the knight muttered, surprise causing his words to form in the rough speech he'd left behind years before when he joined the Count.

Now the tyke looked at him, balefully. "I am so. Turned seven a fortnight ago."

"And where are your parents?" He was almost afraid of the answer he would get. These were not peaceful times, here in the north, and many a child was an orphan.

"At home."

"Do they know you're out?"

"Maybe."

"I suppose we'll have to take him back, won't we Jerril?" the knight asked, suddenly tired.

"It seems so, sir."

"Where do you live?" he asked the child.

"The Hold."

"What's the nearest holding, Jerril?" the knight asked. He should know, but just now he was too tired to think.

"The Hold, sir. It doesn't have another name."

The knight sighed. "I'm sure it doesn't. But we've visited four without names already. Surely they call it _something_ to differentiate it."

Jerril hesitated. "'The one in the trees', sir."

"'The one in the…' no. Whoever heard of a place without a name?"

The soldier's shrug was only just visible in the darkness. "Call it the Tree-bound hold then, sir. They'll know what you mean."

The knight sighed again. "And were we to visit this 'Tree-bound hold', do you know?"

"No sir, we weren't. But I think we might have to."

"Very well. Boy, you'll sleep here tonight. We'll take you home tomorrow. Jerril, if it isn't too much trouble, find out what you can about this holding, will you?"

"As you say sir." Jerril saluted, and dragged the child off. The knight put his head in his hands. It was going to be one of those weeks. He could tell already.


	2. The Hold

"What have you learned for me?" the knight asked.

The soldier grimaced. Whatever he had learned, it had not been to his liking. Or perhaps, the knight thought, he merely had not learned enough for his own liking. Whatever Jerril found out would be more than anyone else could have, but sometimes that was still not enough for the man. He was a competent soldier, and an excellent gatherer of information – never a spy – but the man prided himself on being the best at both. If he had failed to learn something, it was because no one, perhaps not even the gods themselves, knew it, but saying so would only embarrass him.

"Fair little, my lord. I might have learned more if I had gone to the hold, but it did not seem wise." The knight nodded, both to show his understanding and urge the man to continue. "The people of the hold are considered a bit strange, hereabouts. Most are determined warriors or powerful sorcerers. A fair few are both. The people around here don't much like getting close enough to find out more, though they'll trade with the hold quick enough if they can turn a profit from it."

"You have more than that, Jerril, if I know you," the knight commented when the solider fell silent.

"Still little enough, sir. They aren't shy people by any means, rather the opposite, but they're private by nature. Stubborn as stones, the lot of them, but no heads for business, if I understood the folk I talked to aright. They're fighters, not merchants."

"Would they fight for the Count, do you think?" the knight mused aloud, casting a glance back to where the child Jerril had found the night before rode, surrounded on all sides my soldiers.

The soldier nodded thoughtfully. "Could be, sir. They have a funny notion of honor. If you can appeal to that, perhaps. But don't mention gold, or you'll offend them quick enough."

"Warriors that wield sorcery," the knight mused. "Have you any idea how rare that is?"

"Fair enough, sir."

"Aye, that it is. We've no end of surprises on this journey, Jerril. I think we may be in for a few more. And here we are." The group had arrived at a stone fortress. It wasn't in the trees, exactly, for the ground had been cleared for a good area around it, but the knight could see how once this whole area had been forest.

The fortress itself was imposing; stark rock seeming to sprout from the ground to end in jagged peaks somewhere high above him. Not the work of human hands, if he was any judge. Build with sorcery, and lots of it. The place looked impregnable, for all the main entrance stood open. It wasn't a wide entrance, for such a fortress, scarce wide enough for a wagon to enter, but the place had been built for defense, not aesthetics.

The soldier at the gate halted them. He frowned when the knight gave his name and purpose for journeying into the north, and frowned still deeper at mention of the child. Still, he picked took out a mirror and said, "Sir, there's some'at here to see ye," then reluctantly allowed them into the courtyard.

The man that came to meet them was short and stocky, with a brown beard clipped short about his severe mouth. He had the solid, confident movements of a fighter, but the knight had never seen such red eyes on any human. He stood and faced the armed and mounted party with confidence, though he didn't have any weapons. When he saw the child, mounted among the soldiers, he scowled.

"Hello sir," he said, his voice carefully polite. "I hope you'll join us for luncheon, and then we can deal with the business that brings you here." It was a very old formality the man held too, but the knight bowed and accepted in the proper fashion. He hadn't heard such a request in, gods, years, not since he was a little boy, before they crossed the ocean. The man's eyes flicked to the child. "Present yourself after luncheon," he ordered. The child scrambled from his saddle, bowed, and disappeared into the fortress without a word. A strange people, to be sure, the knight thought wryly as he was led in to lunch. Nothing Jerril had said had quite prepared him for these abrupt, if carefully polite, people, and he had a headache coming on that suggested more of this lunacy was to come.


	3. Old Country

_So, I've been updating this one fairly quickly here. I'm hoping to get it done within the month, and it seems on pace to do that. I think perhaps I'll get the whole thing done, and then add in a few chapters in the middle later on. Or not, we'll see. This one's looking like it will be a bi shorter than most of the others. It has shorter chapters, that's for sure. In any case, enjoy._

Sir Rowland, a knight lately of Count Jonathan's service and now the proud guardian of a pup of a child, rubbed his brow wearily. He still wasn't entirely sure how it had happened. He had walked into Tree-bound Hold with no ties except the one he'd had to the Count, far in the south, and the responsibility to look out for his men. Now he had a child to look after. A child! What did a knight know of child rearing? He'd seen dead children, from fire or famine or disease, and children wounded by raiders in the villages, but a healthy, growing child? Oh, he'd passed them in the streets, but he'd never stopped to talk to one. He'd been one himself at one point, he admitted, but that was a long time ago. It had been more than thirty years since he was this child's age.

He'd passed a pleasant enough luncheon with the man with red eyes, who'd called himself Alain. No 'sir' or 'lord', though he was obviously master of the holding. Odd, that. Most men with a fortress half so grand as the Tree-bound hold would have styled themselves a king. Despite the oddness, and the ancient civility, the time had passed pleasantly enough, right until Rowland had mentioned the Book of Gold.

Alain had seemed, in his reserved way, in favor of the idea of his family being in the Book, but he would not serve the Count. It was not the way things should be done. Rowland mentally scolded himself for not remembering that. True, he'd been only a boy when he'd left the western lands across the ocean, but he ought still to remember their ways. A grown man would not enter into the service of another, especially not as a warrior. Such a place must be held from childhood. Thus his child would serve the Count, and when the hold passed to his heir, it would become a part of the kingdom. Then, and not an instant sooner. Still, the child was in the Book, which counted for something.

The child! What a horrid tangle! The child had, as instructed, arrived after luncheon, making his bow in the old way, fist over heart. Someone had given him a good scrubbing, so his previously dirty brown hair shone like bronze and Rowland could see, with some shock, that the tyke had purple eyes. Never in his all his days had he encountered the like of the people of the Tree-bound hold, first Alain with his red eyes now the child with violet. Worse, he saw when the child straightened and met his gaze, the child was no boy at all, but a scrap of a girl, scarce big enough for five, for all she claimed to be seven. This was the child to serve the Count? Oh, what a ghastly tangle! And she had been given over into his care, in the old way, to raise as his apprentice. Or rather, his page, he supposed, and later his squire if it came to that.

The object of his thoughts cantered her horse up to join his in the train. The tyke rode her horse well, he would give her that, and the little pony Alain had given her to ride kept up easily with the bigger horses. Of course it does, he thought bitterly. It isn't carrying any weight.

"Is something wrong, sir?" she wanted to know. Most children, if Rowland remembered aright what he'd heard, would have complained bitterly at riding from noon until near sunset, but this child was more concerned that he wasn't faring well. A strange people, those folks of the hold, and no mistake.

"I was just thinking," he replied. "Your father never told me your name."

"Haven't got one, sir." The girl flushed red, and just in time Rowland kept himself from exclaiming. Truly, he'd been in these eastern lands too long. Of course the girl had a name, but only her family would use it. She wouldn't get a proper name, one the rest of the world would use for her, until she reached adulthood. When that would be, he had no idea. His father had granted him a name before they came east, but his brother had been five years older when he'd received his. Still, he had to call her _something_, and he couldn't shame her by giving her a name when, clearly, she wasn't ready for one. It would have been simpler by far if they had left the old ways in the old countries, he thought bitterly.

"My apologies, miss, I forgot myself. Is there something I might call you until you earn a name?" That was how you asked a child their name in the old countries, wasn't it? It had been so long, it was hard to remember.

"Child, I suppose. Or Girl. One of the villagers used to call me Tyke."

Rowland found himself smiling. Most children in the old country had been called such things before they earned their names. He himself had been variations on the same, as had all his siblings. "I rather like 'Tyke'. I'll call you that, if you don't mind."

"Yes sir."

How serious the child was! He didn't recall other children being nearly so quiet or composed. They weren't all like this, surely. Why, the child had better composure than most adults. He looked the child over through the corner of his eye. Short bronze hair fell just short of her shoulders, contrasting brightly with the dark blue tunic she wore. Her tunic and brown britches were simple and heavy wearing, though in good condition. The black leather boots she wore, which he suspected might be the littlest bit too big, were old but well cared for. Her only other clothing was the thick grey cloak rolled behind her saddle, which he could tell even now was much too big. The little bow from last night was slung over one shoulder, and the enormous knife rested at her hip, though Rowland was sure it was uncomfortable. Certainly he never tried to ride with his sword on. She had a quiver of short little arrows to match her bow, and that was it. Leaving home with scarce the clothes on her back, and only seven years old. But in a way, Rowland was glad she had so little. Tyke was not the sort of child who would find a wandering knight's way of life undue hardship. He wondered, though, if she could actually use the weapons she carried.

"Your bow, Tyke. How are you with it?" he asked.

The little girl shrugged modestly. "Well enough to hunt a bit for the kitchens, sir."

"Rabbit?" he asked. "Fowl?"

She nodded. "Sometimes a squirrel or two, if there isn't else to be found." Rowland nodded in return. So, not much of a long shot, not with a little bow like that, but an accurate one, unless she only brought game down by chance. To look at her, that didn't seem too likely. This was a girl of the old countries, no mistake. Feeling considerably more cheerful, Rowland urged his horse ahead of the company. He hadn't been saddled with a useless little mite, oh no, just a tiny little warrior. Perhaps his luck was starting to look up after all.


	4. Age

_I didn't actually intend to have much of Alanna in here, but she's one of those powerful characters that likes being the center of attention. So she's here to grumble, and maybe throw some perspective on things, but as I said before, we're keeping this one short, so you won't see too much of her. However, every once in a while she'll get one of these little interludes._

"I heard about your latest project." Alanna looked up from her desk, and smiled. Trust Jonathan to come into her study when she'd left orders that she was working, and not to be disturbed. Few disobeyed Alanna, here in her suite at the palace, but fewer still disobeyed the king. He's still the man he was forty years ago, she thought with an inward smile. Jon will be a king until the day he dies, even if Roald does run the country now. "I admit, I was surprised. You, at a desk?"

Alanna smiled at her old friend. The years had been kind to him, and if he looked so much older than he once had, well, he was still as handsome and kingly as ever. "I sort of hope someone in the future will do the same for me," she admitted. "It's not right that she was forgotten."

Jon chuckled. "You think to be forgotten so easily, Lioness? They still sing of your quest of the Jewel, and that was…" he paused. "Mithros, that was forty years ago! Am I really so old?"

"_We _are really so old, Jon. They're forgetting me, and they've already forgotten Kel."

"Now that I don't believe. The pair of you are legends. If they remember my rein a hundred years from now, it will be because of the two of you."

"Don't sell yourself short, Jon. You've been the greatest king Tortall has ever had."

Jon shook his head. "We can debate that another time. I've been reading your notes. The 'Tree-bound hold' was in the same place as Trebond. Don't tell me you're descended from the first female knight."

She laughed. "Not a bit of it. The Trebond line traces back to her younger brother. Not everyone can be a warrior _and _a woman."

Jon reached over and took her hand. "You've done well, darling. We're all proud of you."

Alanna flushed, but didn't let go of his hand. "Don't start on that again."

"Fine. Time was I could overrule you and make you listen, but you're getting prickly in your old age."

Alanna laughed and stuck her tongue out at him, as she had when they were pages together. "And you're getting soft."

Jon grinned and changed the subject. "Perhaps I should take up a project, instead of wandering around the castle like I do. Roald hardly lets me do anything, now."

"They think we're getting old," Alanna said with a grimace, thinking of the patronizing tone her son had used with her when she'd proposed her project.

"Darling, we are old."

"Not so old that I couldn't turn that boy over my knee and give him the spanking he deserves."

"He's not four anymore, you know," Jon commented. Thom was a little too like his namesake for his personal liking, but there was no denying the man was loyal to Roald. He just seemed to think the older generation, his mother and his king included, ought to be put out to pasture for the rest of their days. He also knew Alanna loved her son, but was by no means blind to this particular fault of his. No one, not even his mother, could be exposed to Thom for long and not notice his arrogance.

"He acts like it, sometimes."

Jon squeezed her hand. "He takes after his mother. He'll come around. You did."

"You didn't leave me much choice," Alanna grumbled, more for the sake of form than anything.

"That's the cold weather talking. Perhaps you should go live with the Bazhir for the winter."

"And have Thom tell me I shouldn't be exposed to cold at my age?"

"You never did like the cold. I seem to remember you leaving when you were eighteen to live in the desert. How you survive at Trebond I'll never know."

Alanna shook her head, and mentally began to plan her journey to join her tribe in the desert.


	5. New Country

_Oh dear. It looks like, despite my best intentions, I'm going to be rambling on for a while. Honestly, I don't mean to. Hopefully I can wrap this thing up in under ten chapters, but somehow I have my doubts. Fifteen, max, I promise. Maybe if I get it done quickly, it won't drag on like some of the others. That's the plan, anyway, and it seems to be working. I think this is the third update today :D (I don't have a lot to do at work). As always, reviews are much appreciated._

"… not sure why he keeps the camp rat," she heard a voice say. Three guesses who he means with that, the girl thought sourly. None of Sir Rowland's men had ever had a problem with her, but lately the Count had ridden to join them while they were close enough to Corus for it not to be inconvenient, and none of his men had had exposure to the child Rowland had come to think of as his own. She wanted to go confront the man, but she knew anything she said would sound silly and childish. Though she had been living with – and at times fighting for – Sir Rowland for over three years, there were still those who questioned the knight's decision to keep her among his fighting men.

Some were well intentioned, of course. They thought an army camp was no place to raise a child. Never mind that many a child was raised in an armed camp. They would be quick to point out that those children were raised by their mothers, who had followed their men and lived in tent cities at the edges of a war. They did not act as little pages for a group of soldiers and knights, living under the same conditions as grown soldiers.

As though some of those soldiers were that much older than her in the first place. Why, they had only just picked up three new men, little more than boys really, who were fourteen if they were a day. Tyke was ten, now, the age when most pages began their service. No one could say she was too young, as they had when she first began riding with Sir Rowland. No, their objection was in the stupid eastern tradition that women couldn't ride into battle. Back in the west they would, or so she seemed to remember her father saying.

"Come away, lassie." With an effort, Tyke repressed her sigh. Coban had found her. Sir Rowland might be her guardian, but there were always those among his men that decided she needed more looking after than he gave. Coban, for all he was only sixteen, was one such. As though she couldn't take care of herself; she'd been living with the soldiers longer than he had, after all. She'd even shown him how to shoot his bow properly, so that he hit the target more often than the ground. "They're talking about ye again, aren't they?"

"Aye," she grimaced. "Just once I wish I could beat them about the head, show them what I can do."

He chuckled. "They'd not thank ye for that lesson, lassie. Make no mistake, I'm sure ye could, but what full bloodied knight would like to be bested by a wee lassie like yon?"

"It would be good for them, then."

"I don't doubt it. But later, lassie, later. Ye can scarce lift a sword now, never mind swing it against a full grown man."

"I can too lift a sword," she retorted hotly.

He laughed and ruffled her short hair. "That's a dirk, lassie, as well ye ken. But these brutes use the two handed sword, and ye'll never be big enough for one'a those. Come, now, the commander wants ye."

They made their way together towards Rowland's tent. Someone seeing them might have thought them a comical pair, the big bruiser of a lad leading a mite behind him. Anyone with eyes could see the little one itching for a fight, and if they had been any less friends, the lad (for so Tyke appeared) might have picked it with the big one, for all their differences in size.

Rowland looked up from the map he had been examining when they entered. He was alone, save for the Count, who sat at his ease in a camp chair.

"Tyke, Coban, come in," he invited.

Tyke felt the Count looking her over, and bristled. Until now she hadn't met the man they rode about the countryside for, but the few glimpses she'd had over the last few days did nothing to endear him to her. Rowland might talk of a man who was intelligent and just and brave, but all Tyke could see was an overgrown brat who let others do the work.

"So this is your daughter, Rowland."

Rowland paused over his map. "My page, sir."

"You know what they think of that, in Corus." It wasn't a question.

Rowland had turned back to his map. "I know it's unusual, sir."

"Unusual, man? It's damned well unheard of."

The big knight just shrugged. "I oft forget you were born here, sir. Some countries on the other side of the ocean do it as common practice. And, if I might remind you, it was one of the conditions where you gained the Tree-bound hold."

"Not for years. And just what is so special about this holding? We might have simply taken it later. Perhaps we'd have even gained it sooner."

Rowland glanced at Tyke. "Well sir, they're the warriors of the old countries, for one thing. Tyke is a surer shot than any of my men. As soon as she's big enough to draw a real bow, she'll be damn near unbeatable. There isn't a kitchen maid among them who couldn't take on a trained soldier."

"With enough soldiers, anyone can be beaten," the Count said dismissively.

Tyke saw the knight's mouth quirk in irritation. "That be as it may, sir, you haven't seen the fortress. I'd not relish the task of taking that. If ever there was an impregnable fortress, it was that one."

"Mages," snapped Count Jonathan.

Had he been anyone else, Rowland might have rolled his eyes. "Sir, you know how magic, it leaks."

The Count glanced at him sharply. "Yes."

"There's not a mage in the hold with eyes other than the color of their magic. Tyke's mother had blue hair, even."

Now the Count was all but staring at his knight, casting quick, almost fearful glances at the little girl who still stood in the tent's entrance. "They're that strong?"

"Tyke?" Rowland asked.

She knew what he wanted. There had been those in the past few years that had threatened the company with mages, and it had been in everyone's best interest to dissuade them from trying to carry out those threats. The other mage in the company had designed a spell for Tyke to do to scare them off in a show of power. He couldn't have done it himself, but Tyke was strong enough.

An enormous golden lion appeared next to the Count. He smiled still, but his eyes seemed a little worried. "An illusion, how nice. Any hedgewitch can make one of those, Rowland, you know that." The lion bit his arm, drawing blood. With a cry, the man leapt up, his sword flashing towards the lion, and passing through it. The lion seemed to glare at the man balefully, then disappeared.

Jonathan slumped in his chair. "How in the gods' names…?" Rowland jerked his head towards the lord and, grumpily, Tyke went over to heal the man.

"It's two spells, sir," she muttered. "One for the lion, one to stab you." Both very difficult spells, though she didn't add that. Most sorcerers knew as much already. To do both at once was more than twice as difficult as one on its own. He display of power had thus far been enough to dissuade anyone from trying anything against the group, which was fortunate. Tyke had plenty of magic, but she hardly knew how to use it, and the other mage in the group had already taught her all he knew, none of which included battle spells.

"They're all like that?" Jonathan wanted to know as he inspected his newly healed arm. His face was composed once more, but his voice shook ever so slightly.

"Most of them, sir."

The Count nodded. "I see. Well, perhaps you did rightly. The girl is a powerful weapon, for all she's still a child."

Tyke bristled at that, but Coban's gentle hand on her arm prevented her from lashing out and showing this man what else her magic could do.

Rowland finally spoke to her. "Tyke, this isn't actually what I asked you here for. We're riding east in a few days. I'd like you and Coban to scout ahead of us. Come here." She hurried to his side, and he showed her his map. "We are here. We'll strike out east, heading towards this lake here. The locals say it's about two day's ride, but I suspect it's less. Find out what you can of the area around the lake, and meet us back here in five days. I've already asked that food be packed for you, though you'll have to hunt some for yourselves." He folded the map and handed it to her. "Go with the gods, Tyke."

She stumbled when they left the tent, and Coban caught her. "Ye overdid it again, didn't ye, lassie? He always forgets what the spell does to ye."

"I'm alright, Ban, really," she sighed.

"Course you are. Nothing a little sleep and food won't fix." He ruffled her hair. "Come on, lassie, the sooner we're away from this circus, the happier I'll be."


	6. Young Scouts

Scouting with Coban was one of Tyke's favorite duties. He didn't treat her like she was little and didn't know anything, the way some of the other men did, and if he did sometimes baby her, it was in a rough, good natured way, and he didn't mean anything by it. He was also young enough not to mind getting into scraps with her, although he usually had sense enough to get them out before anything went really wrong.

They were arguably the best, or the worst, scouts among Sir Rowland's contingent. The best, some said, because they moved quietly and fast, and could hide just about anywhere, whereas other scouting parties would sometimes be seen, or even attacked. The worst, other argued, because they tended to miss tactical things that might have been of use, and their reports tended to be somewhat muddled. Rowland said that it all evened out, and that they were average enough, as scouts went. It was a compromise everyone, even the old and experienced scouts, could live with.

"What did ye think of the Count?" Ban asked her as he lay on a large flat rock during the second day of their scouting. They had decided to take a break, and swim in a little lake they found. Tyke was patiently trying to lure the fish towards her so she could grab them, but Coban's question cut into her concentration, and the one she had been about to get darted away.

Tyke considered the question. "I don't think I like him very much," she admitted. "He seemed very full of himself."

"Most people would call that confident," he returned neutrally. What was he thinking, Tyke wondered. She'd know soon enough, but she wished he wouldn't play these games to make her guess his thoughts.

"Maybe. I just think he's a little arrogant." She waded out of the water. "I think arrogance is a bad thing, especially in a man who is supposed to rule the kingdom."

Coban sat up. "I think ye're right. But ye can't choose a king."

"The Count chose himself," Tyke pointed out.

Coban shrugged. "But it's more than that. Rowland and the other knights helped chose him. He wanted to be king, and they supported him."

"So they'll just have to choose better next time," the girl replied pragmatically.

Now her friend laughed. He sometimes forgot how young Tyke was, until she said something like this. "Ye don't choose the next king, ye goose. It'll be the Count's son."

"Why not his daughter? She'd probably make a better king."

"Girls don't become king."

"Well that's just silly," Tyke returned. Two years ago, Coban would have disagreed without a thought. Girls couldn't run countries: they just weren't smart enough, and they went all weak at the thought of blood and war, which a king had to be able to deal with. Then he'd joined Sir Rowland, and met Tyke. She hadn't looked like much, just a slip of a girl riding in the big knight's shadow. He had hardly ever seen her, even, and he'd decided she must by shy of the big new strangers that had just joined the company.

And then they'd been riding through the woods, and she'd suddenly pulled out that little bow of hers, and shot up into the trees. There had been a scream that made Coban, who had thought himself tough minded enough to deal with anything a soldier encountered, turn white, and a heavy shape had fallen out of a tree. Suddenly they were in the middle of an ambush, and Coban had lost sight of the child, who kept her pony close to Sir Rowland's wheeling war horse.

Afterwards they'd gone to look at the dead, to see if they were enemies of the Count or just foolhardy bandits. Among the dead were two men, one the enemy archer from the tree, who had been shot through the throat with what seemed miniature arrows. He had thought the weapons the girl carried to be toys, but with them she had killed more men than he had.

She found him when he was emptying his stomach in the bushes. He'd tried to do it quietly, knowing the older soldiers would laugh at the weakling boy who couldn't stomach seeing a man killed. He'd glared at her, knowing he must be a sight, with vomit dripping down his chin and in a puddle at his feet.

"I threw up the first time I skinned a rabbit," she offered. He had just looked at her, and she shrugged. "You just have to think of them as rabbits. Really big, mean rabbits," she added. He'd smiled, then, and as suddenly as the ambush had started, they were friends.

Now, sitting on his sun-warmed rock, Coban couldn't imagine being a soldier without his little friend around. He tried his best to take care of her, but often enough she seemed to think he was the one who needed help. He thought of how she'd looked when she'd faced the Count, who really had been too arrogant. Tyke hadn't looked like royalty, not by any stretched, but given a choice, he'd rather a monarch like her than the Count.

He grinned at the child before him. "Yes, it's silly. Come on, wee one, we've a fair bit more ground to cover before nightfall."


	7. In Shadows

_I wasn't planning on doing much in modern Tortall, but once again my story is getting away from me. As always, reviews are very much appreciated._

Thom fiddled with his wine glass irritably. He ought to be happy; for once his mother wasn't out risking her fool neck, chasing after ogres or fighting gods. Instead, she was quite contentedly living in the southern desert with the tribe, acting for all the world like some Bazhir's grandmother. One account even had her weaving rugs for her study at Olau. And, of course, writing that book of hers. She was happy, that was the important thing. And yet… he did sometimes wish she would go quietly into retirement. Though it might seem to those that didn't know her she was doing exactly that, Thom knew this for the calm before the storm. Alanna was going to set Tortall on its head at least once more.

He wouldn't have minded so much, perhaps, if everyone had just accepted that his mother was the sort of once in a hundred years freak that just tended to set the world on its ear. The problem was, they didn't, and they kept expecting something brilliant of Thom. It didn't help that his little sister had orchestrated a rebellion in the Copper Isles that put an end to slavery and a centuries-long feud. He'd tried mentioning to Alan, but his brother didn't even notice the problem.

But then, Thom thought bitterly, Alan had always taken after Raoul far more than either of his parents. Alanna was notoriously high-strung; George could be easy going, but was still an active, adventuresome, and above all busy man. Alan had to be the most easygoing man alive, and people had just accepted it, and all but forgotten that he was the son of the famed Lioness.

Whereas they never seemed to forget it when it came to Thom himself. Every time he made a waspish comment, every time he did a big working, every time there was a hint of a rebellion somewhere far away, people looked at him uneasily. It didn't even seem to matter anymore that his uncle, with whom he shared his name, had had no part in the plots leading up to King Jonathan's coronation. It was enough that the man had been a powerful mage (far more powerful than Thom himself could ever hope to be, though he admitted that to no one), and had raised the dead. Not for the first time Thom found himself wishing that his mother had never changed places with her twin those fifty years ago. He quashed the thought irritably. Alanna had been destined to do great things, and she'd done them, and he was proud of her. He just wished, sometimes, that people would be more understanding when he didn't follow her to greatness.

"Are you alright, dear?" his wife asked anxiously.

He tried to smile at her. She was a good woman, if unexciting. He'd married her because she was nice enough, and pretty enough, and they got along well enough, and she'd married him because he was rich enough, kind enough, and well enough connected. It had not been a brilliant match politically, nor a scandalous one. They had not married for undying passion, or against great odds. And that sort of mediocrity had lasted through all the years of their marriage. She'd borne him four children, who all took after their mother in being just slightly on the better side of completely ordinary. If he'd been willing to admit it to himself, Thom would have said he was jealous of his mother's exciting life.

"Thom, darling," his wife said, interrupting his reverie again.

"Yes, Marilynne?" he asked, tiredly. They'd made it through ten years of marriage , because he had never listened closely enough to what she was saying to be annoyed by it, and she in return had pretended not to notice his sullen, brooding silences and odd moods.

"Who inherits Olau?" Now why would she…? He wondered, before realization hit. Of course. She had been visiting with Jocasta of Runnerspring the other day. She always had these bouts of ambitions after visiting one of her friends who, though from a less-well connected and influential family, all seemed to be doing well for themselves. It was near enough to make him sick. Jocasta had married Garvey when no one else would, and there had begun to be talk of the fief passing to a nephew or niece instead of the heir's own child. She had wanted the wealth, and cared not at all for the curse that was said to be attached to Garvey after he survived the Ordeal of Knighthood when one of his friends went near to mad, and the other died in the Chamber.

"Aly," he said simply. He would have thought it obvious: his mother had held Olau and Trebond, his father had been Baron of Pirates Swoop. Now the Swoop had passed to him, and Trebond to Alan. Aly, being in the Copper Isles still with her husband, would gain Olau when their parents were done with it, and she would probably retire there, or pass it on to her own children immediately. Thom had sometimes, when he was little, imagined himself master of Olau, but now that he was grown, he could not imagine living anywhere but the Swoop. But Marilynne was ambitious…

"Oh, but surely she won't be coming back to it, not after all these years. And little Josep," she added, naming their three year old son, "I would hate to leave him without any inheritance."

"So you'd rather he had my sister's?" Thom asked, for once really listening to her. She seemed to miss how cold his voice had suddenly gone.

"I'm only looking out for our children, dearest." Once he had thought it cute when she pouted; now it only annoyed him.

"I'm sure."


	8. Count's Squire

"What are ye up to, lassie?" Though Tyke sat on an upended barrel, when Coban leaned against the wall across from her their eyes were on a level. She was hidden in an alley between the rows of wooden buildings that made up this little town where they'd stopped for the month, so Sir Rowland could work on the Book.

"Fletching." She refused to meet his eyes, although she could feel him staring at her. A brisk fall wind blew through the alleyway, swirling leaves about his feet as it took the smell of her arrow glue away.

He made a vexed sound. "Here in the dark, lass? Why?"

"I don't want to be in the way," she mumbled.

She felt him draw close, though she kept her focus on the half finished arrow in her lap. "Scootch ye over, lassie." She obediently moved over, and Ban hopped onto the barrel beside her. "Now, don't ye be telling me ye're in the way. Ye ain't never been, and if I know ye, ye never will be." That was as close to a pep talk as he had ever given her. "Look at me." She hesitated, then obeyed, reluctantly meeting Coban's concerned green eyes with her own purple ones. "Ye've been a right little rain cloud since we caught his lordship up after scouting. It weren't the Count, 'cause ye were right enough when we was scouting, and it ain't the place, since ye loved it not a week ago." He waited. "Well?"

She tried to hold silent, but couldn't. "I hate him! He's mean and he's rotten and he's a sneak. I dunno what he's doing here, but I wish he'd just up and die so then I could be left alone!"

Coban caught her chin gently, looking at her. Tyke waited, knowing he could see the tears brimming in her eyes. She dashed them away angrily. "Who lass?"

She snuffled, hating that her weakness showed. "Julius. That flaming sod," she added. For once Coban didn't even comment on her language, just wiped a tear away with his finger.

"I hear he's been a right terror to the younger boys," he commented neutrally.

Tyke spat, hitting the wall across the alley. "Aye, that's a word for it," she said darkly. "He's beating the tar out of them, and they just have to take it."

"Don't they fight back?" Coban wanted to know.

Of course he wouldn't know what it's like, Tyke thought bitterly. He's bigger than Julius, even if he's younger, and he's no commoner. And the boys won't tell, people would think they were soft, or whiners. "They won't hit a noble," she said.

"They hit nobles all the time," Coban exclaimed. "Who else would deserve a good thrashing?" Trust another noble to say that, Tyke thought, but kept it to herself.

"They can't anymore. We missed it scouting, but the Count said commoners weren't to hit nobles, or fight them, except maybe in war against nobles who aren't _our _nobles, or something. Common folk who did could face big trouble."

"That ain't right," Coban growled. Tyke was glad he was angry and indignant: Coban was older than she was, and knew a lot more, and if he said something wasn't right, then it probably wasn't. "Ye stay out of his way, ye hear, lassie? I know ye could take him, but I'd rather ye didn't try. I'd bet he's got some nasty friends around to help him, just in case someone decides to hang the Count's rules." He grinned at her, and she returned it weakly. Julius hadn't picked on her yet, but she'd seen him watching her, and she knew it was just a matter of time. Rowland couldn't be everywhere, and she didn't doubt Julius would find a time when they weren't under his eye to make her life miserable.

"Now then," Ban added, reaching over and taking the arrow out of her hands. "I know ye're a good fletcher. And ye know ye're a good fletcher. And Sir Rowland knows ye're a damn fine fletcher who makes the best arrows of us all." Tyke turned red at the praise, though she knew it was true. "So do ye want to tell me why a five year old can make a better arrow than this?"

Tyke turned redder, if that was possible. "Julius broke most of his trying to shoot birds in the forest this morning."

Coban's grin lit up his whole face. "And Sir Rowland wanted his new squire to have the very best replacements, am I right?"


	9. Gold Lake

"Why are we going to Gold Lake?"

Rowland looked back at the little girl he had come to think of as his daughter. She was ten, now, and seven, but she was as fierce as ever. He'd once thought it funny, to see how the big lad Coban followed her around, looming protectively over the child, and funnier still that she led him by the nose, but now it brought him a great feeling of peace. He knew the men thought he didn't see when Julius bullied the younger men among the company, but he did, and he did his best to make things difficult for the young man. And keeping Coban with Tyke made things _very _difficult for him. Coban wasn't a bully, but he was big, and he was a capable fighter who wouldn't shy from a fight, even if he didn't look for them. Tyke was a true fighter, or would be when she got big enough, and of late he'd noticed she had a bit of a nasty streak that made Julius wary of her. Oh, she wasn't a sneaking bully like the bigger boy, and she would never dream of picking on someone littler than her (though she was the smallest by a long ways among the company, there were always younger children in the villages they visited), but if she had an advantage, she wouldn't hesitate to exploit it fully.

"Perhaps I'd like to go home to my family," Rowland told his ward gently. Out of the corner of his eye he saw his squire sneer at the girl, no doubt thinking she was stupid. Well, he would learn soon enough, just as soon as Tyke got truly fed up with him.

"I don't remember you saying you were married. Why haven't we visited them before?"

Rowland hesitated. To tell the child he'd married because it was expedient, and the woman had been a good match, would not teach her the values he hoped to instill in her. Instead, he said only, "The Book was more important at the time."

"Why isn't it more important now?" Tyke wanted to know.

Ah, a child's curiosity could be such a wonderful thing, and at the same time terribly annoying. "It is still more important, but my family refuses to wait for me any longer. They want to see me. And they want to meet you," he added. He didn't mention the angry letter he had received from his wife when she learned that he had taken guardianship of a young girl, even though he'd tried to explain it was for the good of the realm. She was always accusing him of putting his work before his family: the problem was, she was right.

"Then we're going back out to do the Book some more, right?"

"That's right." For how much longer, Rowland wasn't sure. The book was about half finished, and if anything the pace was picking up, as people heard about it and began putting together their censuses before he arrived. It still took a long time to set down properly, especially when he had to see to Julius's training at the same time. Why the Count had thought he needed a squire was quite beyond him; he managed quite well with Tyke and his men.

Tyke was silent for a time, and Rowland was content to let it be that way. It wasn't that Tyke had a tendency to chatter – the girl hardly spoke without a purpose – but she still had a young child's curiosity, and right now he wasn't ready to face that.

"What's your wife's name?"

"Romilda." He hoped this wasn't leading up to another bout of questioning.

It didn't. Tyke dropped back to ride with Coban, and the two talked quietly the rest of the day, though every once in a while Rowland would hear a snort of laughter from the pair of them. They made a comical pair, did those two, with Tyke having to crane her neck to look at Coban when he sat on his horse that towered over her pony, but it did his heart good to see them. If only there was some way to stop Romilda from seeing them.


	10. Hag

Gold Lake was a prosperous town, made that way by the plentiful trade across the lake and down the river. Sir Rowland, and those who took care of his interests in the town while he was away, helped ensure that prosperity by keeping the town well policed, but otherwise keeping their noses out of the merchants' business.

Rowland and his family kept a manor house a little ways around the lake from the town. In this well populated and established area, there was little need for the sturdy fortresses that abounded further north. Tyke, riding back to the manor after a day's jaunt into town, thought the manor seemed far less welcoming than any of the northern forts.

"Why's Romilda such a sour old lady?" she asked Jerril. The soldier had been sent along with her and Coban today. Rowland had said it was because the land wasn't safe enough for two children to go riding unprotected, even if fortresses weren't necessary here; Tyke rather thought it was because Romilda didn't like Jerril, and Rowland tried not to antagonize his wife more than necessary.

Beside her, Ban choked back a laugh, while Jerril tried to look as disapproving as they all knew Rowland would be if he heard Tyke call Romilda a 'sour old lady.' "Sir Rowland don't give a jot for his bufflebrained children, but he'll take you all over the country with him. Romilda isn't best pleased by that, I promise you," he said in his blunt way. Most of the men skipped around an issue when Tyke asked questions. Jerril never did. Tyke was inclined to think that was one reason Romilda disliked him so much.

"They aren't bufflebrained, are they?" Tyke asked anxiously.

Jerril spat. "What do you think?"

Tyke thought about the three children she'd met over the past few days. Job was twelve, and would grow into a big, burly man like his father. He seemed shy, though, and a couple of times she'd caught him staring off into space, obviously daydreaming about being somewhere far away. If that one ever becomes a knight, it will be because he thinks it's romantic, she thought scornfully. Jezebel was ten, like Tyke herself, although she never missed the opportunity to point out that she would be eleven soon, while Tyke had only just turned ten. Tyke might not have minded her so much if she was just sky and quiet like her older brother; instead, Jezebel delighted in visiting the yard where the company trained, watching the younger men (Tyke had always thought them boys, for all the youngest was four years her senior) almost hungrily. That annoyed Tyke no end, because she had always considered the men of Sir Rowland's company to be hers, in a way, especially the younger ones that still occasionally got sick at the sight of blood, and she was damned if she was going to let some bufflebrained chit anywhere near them. Last, but certainly not least in his own mind, was Merd, who was the apple of his mother's eye and spoiled completely rotten. The little bugger had had the audacity to tell Ban – her Coban! – that he wasn't good enough to stay in the main house with the rest of them. She had almost pummeled the rat, except she knew Rowland wouldn't have liked that.

Sensing her brooding thoughts, Coban clucked to her. "Be nice, now, me lassie, ye might turn out to be as bufflebrained as they. Or wasn't that a dress we were just buying?"

Tyke stuck her tongue out at him. "I don't like dresses, but Hag Romilda says I don't get to eat tonight if I'm not properly dressed for dinner."

"And ye like to eat, don't ye, lass?"

"Shut your mouth, boy," she teased right back, "or we'll find you a dress to wear too. Hag Romilda will have some that will fit. They might be too short, but they'll be wide enough."

Ban grinned down at her. "Are ye calling me fat, lassie? Ye wound me, that ye do." Tyke giggled.

"Here now, none of that you two," Jerril broke in. "If Sir Rowland heard you saying that about his wife, all three of us would catch it double quick. We'll be at the house soon, and not a word out of either of you against the missus."

"Ye don't like her either," Ban pointed out reasonably.

"But I like my life and my career well enough, chuffbrain. Now quiet!"

Tyke leaned towards Ban to whisper to him. He had to stoop low in his saddle to hear her. "Aye, I'd be a right old biddy too, if I looked like that hag!" Ban grinned, then shushed her.

Dinner that night was as bad as Tyke had feared. Jerril, being a common soldier, was excused from Hag Romilda's table, and got to eat in the barracks with everyone else. Tyke, Coban, and Captain Narl sat stone-faced through the meal, while the hag chattered, Julius made his stupid, conceited comments, and Rowland tried to start an intelligent conversation with his squalling, idiot offspring.

"Why Lord Coban," Hag said at one point, "might I ask why you serve as a common soldier? Anyone with eyes can see you belong among your own kind with Squire Julius."

Ban turned very red, and Tyke looked at her big friend with concern. She'd never questioned why Ban wanted to be a soldier like any of the other men, instead of a stuck up squire like Julius.

At last Ban said, "My father knighted me before I joined Sir Rowland," he said at last. "I served as a squire for two years before that." He looked her full in the face, and his gaze called her the hag Tyke had named her, even if his words didn't. "I decided not to do that again."

"Oh, but you're a knight," Hag all but cried. Tyke noticed how Jezebel shut up and started listening intently, gazing almost raptly at Coban all the while. Tyke, feeling annoyed and sick and hating her dress, couldn't wait for supper to end.


	11. Quiet Retirement

Alanna looked up from her writing desk, surprised at the shadow that had suddenly loomed across her page. Her tent was at the edge of the camp, behind the temple, and few people came to visit her here, especially when the sun was high and they knew she would be working on her book. The newcomer was silhouetted against the afternoon sun so she couldn't make out his face. His figure reminded her of George, but his voice, when he spoke, might have belonged to her brother.

"I didn't mean to disturb you, mother." Alanna smiled and beckoned her eldest son to sit next to her. He wasn't yet forty, but his hair was liberally streaked with grey, as her own hadn't been until well into her fifties.

"Not at all. What brings you here? I know you don't like living with the Bazhir much," she said as gently as she could, offering him a cup of wine. He took it gratefully, settling more comfortably on the rug.

"You know that's not true. Just because I never liked it as much as you or Alan doesn't mean I dislike it." He paused. "I'm sorry. I've been having a difficult time of it, lately. Marilynne started asking about Olau again, and suddenly I just had to get away."

Alanna nodded sympathetically. "I know you never loved her the way your father and I love each other, but I had hoped you would get past that."

"So did I. How is your book coming?" he asked, changing the subject.

"As well as can be expected. I work on it as much as I can, but there are times when I just have to get away from the papers and do something real." Thom grinned, and she ruffled his hair the way she had when he was a little boy. "Don't you be starting with that, my boy. It's just difficult to write about a lady knight without remembering that I'm one too."

Thom laughed, now. "I had hoped you would be able to retire quietly to Olau, and get the rest and peace you've earned."

"Time enough for that when I'm dead," Alanna returned in her blunt way. "You know Jasson is here?"

"More of us call him Prince Jasson, mother," Thom said dryly.

"Yes, that would be the boy who I turned over my knee when he was five for trying to steal my sword."

"I suppose you're going to tell me that legends can call princes whatever they want?"

Alanna huffed. "I don't know anything about legends, but I _do _know I helped raise that boy up from an infant."

"And you'll never let him forget it. No, I didn't know," he added, forestalling any further comment. "Why is he here?"

"I think Jon sent him to look after me."

"Oh, stop whining mother. He always was your favorite."

"But I don't need looking after."

"King Jonathan is abdicating. I didn't know if you'd heard."

Alanna nodded slowly. "I heard. I guess he's decided that Roald ought to run the Tortall in name as well as in fact."

"Then perhaps," Thom said gently, "Jasson is trying to learn to be King's Champion from the greatest Champion ever. I'm sure Uncle Jon know you can take care of yourself."

Alanna smiled at her son. "Will you be staying long?"

Thom shrugged. "We'll see, won't we? I'll leave when I have my head straightened out."

"Then we'd best get you a tent, hadn't we? You'll be here a while."


	12. Hiding

_I'm adding four new chapters right now, and they may be the last updates for a little while, seeing as I have to go off to university and all, and I have no idea what my schedule is going to be like. These next three are, shall we say, snapshots of Tyke's life, which are fairly brief. If I come back and add more to this story later, it will probably be in this section. Until then, it runs alright, and I think it fills in some gaps nicely without taking forever. As always, please review (I do so hate to beg, but…)_

Despite Rowland's worries, Tyke went riding on her own frequently over the next two weeks they were in Gold Lake. She'd wake early in the morning, while everyone else enjoyed the luxury of sleeping in past sunrise, and slip out of the manor. Sometimes she would take her horse, other times she would walk in the woods, as she had used to back at the Tree Bound Hold. As she had been, that first time when she had met Sir Rowland. She knew Rowland would have objected to her outings, but most of his time was spent trying to convince his wife that he really did care for her and his children, and working to fulfill his fatherly duties to that end. Jerril had caught her on her way out a few times, but hadn't said anything. Coban she avoided.

It wasn't that she hadn't known he was a noble and a knight. It was just that he'd never told her. And while she respected his privacy when it came to his past – after all, she almost never talked about her life before she had joined Rowland – she just thought he might have told her before he told someone like the Hag. That was what friends did, right? They shouldn't have to learn something important like that by eavesdropping on the soldiers when everyone else thought they were asleep.

She heard a sound in the bushes and whirled, drawing her dirk. Coban glared at her from where he leaned against a tree a few feet away. Tyke kicked herself mentally for paying so little attention to let him get this close.

"I thought I might find ye here."

"Hullo Ban," she said sullenly.

"Nice to see ye too. Even if you _have _been avoiding me."

"Sorry," she muttered.

He moved quickly out of the bushes to join her. "Oh, put that up, ye." He brushed her hair, grown long the way the soldiers wore it, out of her eyes. "Why ye been avoiding me, lassie?"

"I haven't," she muttered, turning away.

"And I'm a jackdaw. The truth, now."

"You could have told me you were a knight. Instead I had to find out by eavesdropping on the other men." She met his eyes, suddenly both angry and upset.

He nodded slowly. "I might have done. But maybe I like to pretend I'm not. I'm not a knight like Rowland, lassie. I never saw bloodshed before I came to here."

She smiled slightly, and the tears that had threatened went away. "I know that."

He sighed theatrically. "I know ye do. Can we move on?"

She took his proffered hand. "Aye. Want to come fishing with me?"

"That I do."


	13. Rowland's Problem

Rowland rubbed his tired eyes. What he needed was to be young again. He had finished the Book, or very nearly. All that remained was to take it to Corus. Part of the problem had been that, even after he visited a place, new information was always arriving from there, as people had children, or old people died of gods alone knew what, or some lord made a new ruling on a particular point of law. It really was too much to ask for people to sit and do nothing while he completed his work, but sometimes he wished their lives were slightly less busy.

That wasn't the problem right now. The problem, as he saw it, was that he wanted to make Tyke his squire. No, that wasn't right. The _problem _was that he still had Julius waiting around doing squire-ly things, and most importantly filling up the space that he wished for Tyke. He could have waited until after they presented the Book to the Count – or King, rather, as he had been hailed increasingly in the last three years – but he knew Jonathan would look at the girl and think her just a camp rat, despite all she did. If he could make her a squire, she could not be overlooked, as a page might and would be.

He couldn't ask any of the other knights to take her, either. Tenacious and a superb warrior though she might be, Tyke was still female. And now that she had grown into a young woman, he'd heard whispers of rumors – not even the rumors themselves, just murmurings that they existed – concerning the reasons she was kept around. Not one of the men said anything of the sort, of course, but still, the looks they got when Tyke rode into a village with them… The men all looked on her as a daughter, or a younger sister, or even, in the case of some of the youngest soldiers, as something of an older sister, for all she was still only thirteen, and he wouldn't accept a soldier younger than fourteen. New recruits sometimes muttered, but they were quickly hushed, and by the time they'd seen their first combat, they would realize Tyke was the veteran of many the battle, despite her youth and sex. He almost wished he could make her Coban's squire – if anything, the two had grown only closer over the years, and the big knight still followed the girl-child around like a puppy – but if anything would cause talk, that would. No one looking at the two for the first time would believe they were just friends, unless they could be convinced the pair were brother and sister. It might not be hard to convince someone of that, seeing the way the two behaved, but just to look at them, anyone would know it was impossible.

Tyke had grown – somewhat – into a slender girl, though the muscles in those skinny arms could have shamed a blacksmith. Her hair shone like polished bronze these days, and no one could miss that stunning violet gaze. Coban was big, far bigger than anyone related to Tyke could have been, and his dark brown hair defied the very idea of a flashy shade like Tyke's.

He had to make her a squire for her own good, he'd discovered that a few days ago when they rode into the latest village, which he might even have gone so far as to call a town. Jerril had brought the story back from the marketplace, where he'd gone with Tyke, Coban, and Tyke's latest adopted soldier, Gordon. It was a hot summer day, and Tyke had been wearing her sleeveless tunic that, seeing how it fit her, had lately made Rowland wonder if he ought to get the child some proper woman's clothes, no matter how she objected to it.

They were only passing through, on their way farther north, but they had stopped for the day to give the men some free time in the town. One of the town boys, fourteen years old, maybe, Jerril had said, had been quite suggestively rude to Tyke, and when he'd learned she was traveling with a company of soldier, had become increasingly so. It distressed Rowland no end, besides offending his sensibilities, to hear his surrogate daughter talked about in that way. Gordon, a runty boy of fifteen, though good with a bow, had tried to make the town lad push off. It might have ended worse than it had if Coban, sensing his little friend's distress, hadn't come and bodily slammed the boy into a wall, ending all question of what would happen to him or anyone else who made remarks about Tyke.

Yes, the girl would have to be a squire. No one said a word against a squire – unless they were a knight, of course, but they'd seen few enough of those, lately – even if that squire was a woman. Insulting a squire would bring the full wrath of the nobility down on the unfortunate's head. Of course, Rowland hadn't yet tested this theory about squires – he'd yet to hear of another girl in these eastern lands becoming so much as a page – but he was quite confident in it.

Unless… now there was a thought. Julius was nearing the time when he could be knighted. He might as well have been, if he would only let Rowland knight him, instead of insisting that only the king could do it. As though the king had nothing better to do than dub new knights. But he could be safely passed along to serve another knight until they reached Corus. Who to chose? It couldn't be one of the younger knights – Julius would be mortally offended, and the boy was completely unmanageable when he thought his precious noble's dignity was at stake. Certainly it couldn't be Coban – they hid it well in front of him, but he knew how much the squire detested they younger man, who had already achieved knighthood.

In the end, if was Waldron he settled on. The man wasn't young by any means, but he had been a knight even before he crossed the ocean, if only just. Perhaps he could even hammer some old world manners into the boy. That wouldn't be a bad thing at all. With a relived sigh – and another wish that he was younger than his present years – he called for one of the men to find Waldron to discuss the plan with him.


	14. Big Sword

Tyke looked at her guardian warily. She'd learned, over the last month, that any time he called a halt to their progress and then called her over to him, something bad was about to happen. It was even worse when he also asked his former squire to join them. Now that he'd asked not only Julius, but also Coban to join him, she had the very strong sense that the headsman's axe was about to fall on her neck.

Rowland smiled reassuringly at her, which didn't help in the least. She wasn't going to like what came next. "Tyke, since you've become a squire, I think it's time for you to learn to use a knight's weapons."

Tyke grimaced. "But Rowland, I _like _my knife."

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Julius sneering. "Commoner," he hissed. Coban glared at him pointedly.

"You said yourself I wasn't big enough to use a sword," Tyke continued.

Rowland actually laughed. "You actually remember me saying that? You were, gods girl, you were seven. You've grown a touch since then. And it's a dirk, not a knife," he added, almost as an afterthought, looking pointedly at Julius. "The weapon of a noble in the western lands." Julius did not seem pleased by this.

"Beg pardon, sir, but why can't the mite use the dirk, then?" Coban wanted to know.

"Because it's half the length of my sword. It's a good weapon, but difficult to wield against a broadsword. And I expect my squire to be able to defeat any knight."

He handed her a long wooden cudgel. "You'll practice with this. Coban, would you train with Julius for a time? We'll switch partners later."

It wouldn't do any good to complain further, and besides, it wasn't in Tykes nature. Grimly, she raised her cudgel to defend herself against her guardian, knowing she never, ever wanted to actually use a sword.

Coban found her later that knight, sitting up in a tree. "What's on yer mind, lassie?"

"I don't like swords," Tyke answered.

Coban laughed and swung up into the tree next to her. "Course ye don't, especially when ye can't hardly lift it." He mussed her short hair, then grew serious again. "What'll ye do?"

"I'll practice with Rowland, I suppose." She looked at her big friend in the dark. "Would you help me practice? With my dirk, I mean. I don't care what Rowland says, I'll beat anyone with my dirk, or my bow. Me using a broadsword… that's just plain silly."

Coban chuckled kindly. "Aye, I'll help ye, but if ye beat me too many times, I might change my mind."

Tyke laughed. "You're a knight, Coban."

He caught her chin gently. "And ye're a warrior, lass." He pulled his hand away suddenly, and looked away. Then he jumped down from the tree. "I'm off to find some supper. Ye coming?"

"Of course." She jumped from the tree and Coban caught her, just as he had when she was eight. She didn't stop to think about Coban's slightly odd behavior until much later, when she was alone in the night on guard duty.


	15. Priests and Ladies

Corus was a bustling city, sitting as it did near on the river Olorun near the coast. Until it reached Corus, the river was wide and deep enough to accommodate most trading ships, and even many of the great ships the settlers from the west used to cross the ocean. People came from the villages and farms from all around, often as a day's hard ride away, to sell their products, or buy things that were not made in their own villages. As a result, the narrow dirt streets were packed with people, all of whom glared at each other suspiciously, as though certain these city folk were determined to rob them of their hard-earned coin.

Tyke didn't like Corus either, but not because she didn't trust the city dwellers. She'd met a lot of people traveling with Rowland, and few of them were any more or less trustworthy than the people of Corus. It wasn't just city people who would rob someone of their last coin, but farm folk and soldiers and sailors and anyone else you met, anywhere. Even priests.

Tyke smirked as, riding through the packed streets of Corus, she remembered _that _incident. They had been a little way outside a town when they met a man who claimed to be a traveling priest. Rowland, who despite his pragmatic character was deeply religious, had of course offered the man escort and protection, and extended an invitation to dine with himself and the other noble members of the company. Tyke had not attended the dinner, because it was Coban's night on watch, and he had refused to take advantage of noble privilege to skimp out on his work, and Tyke had always considered his watches to be her watches as well. Certainly she was a better sentry than he, with her keener eyes and ears, and better woodcraft.

The two of them had stopped by Rowland's tent around midnight, Coban to apologize to Rowland again for missing the supper, and to give his excuses again, and Tyke to lend her support and, quite possibly, her own apologies as well. They had found Rowland and his guests in a drugged sleep, and the gold plates and other few valuables that Rowland carried with him taken. The priest was gone.

Tyke didn't think any of the men knew what had happened that night, save Jerril, who always seemed to know exactly what was going on, no matter how well you thought you hid your actions. She and Coban had slipped away, tracking the priest through the dark, with Tyke providing a dim witch light to make it easier. They caught the priest a few hours before dawn, and relieved him of his burden which had made him both slow and easy to track. Coban had been prepared to beat the priest; Tyke wouldn't let him. She'd had Coban tie the man to a tree with his own boot laces, and then administered the beating herself. Rowland, she had told him, was both her knight master and her adoptive father, and since the offence was against him, she claimed the right to deal out the punishment. In truth, she hadn't wanted Coban to have to do it. Coban was a good soldier, but he was also a good man, and cruelty did not come easily to him, even when it was justice he dealt out. Tyke had never considered herself cruel, not the way Julius could be, but it was she who always kicked an enemy when they were down, just as they were reaching for some hidden weapon to surprise their honorable opponent with. She knew, in beating the priest, she was far more vicious than Coban would have been.

He had pulled her away at last, and only allowed her to put what he thought was a healing on the man. But though Coban had seen the false priest's type before, it was Tyke who remembered how they had gone on to prey on other villages, and she felt only a slight pang of unease as she laid a slow death spell on the man, one she had learned from a particularly nasty witch up north, when they had been staying in a remote village. The witch had been mean, perhaps even evil, but very knowledgeable, and Tyke had learned all she had to teach of both killing and healing while Rowland was occupied with other matters.

They had raced back to camp in the gathering dawn, and replaced the valuables before Rowland or the others woke from their slumber. No one knew anything had been stolen - except Jerril - but one of the sentries had spotted Tyke and Coban sneaking back into camp. That had earned Tyke her first - and hopefully only - lecture about girls and boys and the ways of the world, as Rowland put it, rather red in the face. Tyke already knew all that, of course: there was almost always a village healing woman where they traveled or, if not, then a motherly sort who was only too keen to look after the girl child that rode with all the rugged soldiers. Coban had got a lecture of his own, though Tyke only knew that because Jerril had let it slip one night when he had drunk rather too much, to the effect that Sir Rowland's surrogate daughter was strictly off limits to any man that served under him, or perhaps more accurately, any man at all. They were no few men among the company who had watched Tyke grow up and considered themselves, if not adoptive fathers, than doting uncles, and would slay any man who looked at their little Tyke crosswise.

Tyke carelessly slipped her belt knife out and slashed the hand of a man who had tried to reach into her saddlebags unnoticed. They must think her blind, she thought grimly, riding past the man who was now cursing her quietly, swearing at her while trying to avoid the notice of the grim soldiers that rode beside her. No, Tyke didn't trust the people of Corus any less than anyone else, but that was because she trusted few enough people to begin with. The reason she didn't like Corus was because it was the home of the Count, and there was a certain something about Count - or rather, King - Jonathan that really irked her. He was handsome (they said), he was charming (they said), and he was completely and utterly arrogant (Tyke knew from experience). On the other hand, she was glad to be here now, because they were here so the Count, as Tyke would always know him, could knight Julius. Once Julius was knighted, he would leave the company, and take his bullying ways with him. Privately, Tyke hoped he would take the few younger retainers who had toadied up to him with him, so that she would be free of them and their rude, bullying ways as well. Though they rarely saw their way clear to pick on her - Coban saw to that, and if they did manage to catch her Jerril would hear of it, and make sure they quietly got what they deserved - but the younger soldiers had no such protection. Some of the men thought it made young soldiers tougher; Tyke thought it created division in the ranks, and did everything she could to stomp it out. She had dueled three young men already this year, pummeling them quietly while some of the older soldiers kept a wary eye out for Sir Rowland and Captain Narl. Perhaps Rowland and the captain had heard of them anyway - Jerril might have told, as he sometimes did when he had his reasons - but if they did they said nothing. Nothing was said, but Tyke had noticed that the bullying tended to decrease, and if it picked up again where it was thought she wouldn't see, Jerril would 'accidentally' let it slip to her.

Tyke saw a woman slip a practiced hand into Coban's saddlebag as he rode past. She reached down and grabbed the woman by the hair, grabbing the money pouch the woman had stolen when she put her hands up to try and free her hair from Tyke's grip. With a grimace she shoved the woman away, and slipped the pouch in her own saddlebags, to return to her friend later. Coban was too trusting: he thought people brushed up against them because there wasn't room to move, not realizing that no one would wander into a group of trained soldiers on warhorses without some malicious intent. Most ordinary citizens saw the company, with their mean-eyed horses and battered mail, and moved as far out of the way as they could, even if it meant they had to take a turn they wouldn't normally have.

Thirteen years old, Tyke found herself musing. I've lived and fought with a company of armed men for six years. I think I may be the only female squire there is, she thought with some surprise. Half the time it seemed she forgot she herself was female, until someone made a comment about her sex, or she had to go find a bush to do her business behind, instead of just turning to face the trees as the men did. No other thirteen year old girl trains with weapons like I do - I wonder what they do instead? She knew some girls worked in the fields and on the farms like the men-folk, and some because healers, and she had a vague impression that some of them worked to weave cloth and sew clothes. But they can't all do that, she thought. There's a whole city here, and I doubt they need that many weavers or healers. And what about the noble girls? They wouldn't dirty their hands growing food, would they? She had an idea that many of the noblemen they encountered throughout the realm thought she ought to be at home doing a woman's work, but that still didn't answer just what a woman did.

There would be noble woman at the Count's residence, she thought. While they waited for the talking, the feasting, and all the other things that accompanied their visit their to be finished up, she would find out what it was, exactly, that a noble woman did if they couldn't swing a sword.

_This one was going to be short too, and then the priest thing just popped into my head, and I liked it because I think it shows a bit more of Tyke's personality. In answer to Kaysin's comment, I'm really trying to distance Tyke's life from Alanna's (and Kel's) without making it totally separate (if that makes any sense). So no, she doesn't get along with the Count, and I hope I've conveyed that she isn't too into the idea of being a knight. Well, she wants to be a knight, but it isn't her life dream the way it was for Alanna and Kel, more like the only thing she can think of to do. As for the Gymcatgrl's question, Coban is and isn't an earlier Coram. I'm afraid the names as similar, I don't know why since I didn't mean them to be. He's there to look after Tyke for now, but we'll see what happens to him later. I'm not completely decided, but I don't think he'll stay in the mentor role too much longer because I think Tyke's getting a bit too old for a babysitter. However, he fits the role well, so we will have to see._


	16. Nobility

_It's been longer than I thought since the last update, but that's what school does. Still, it has arrived. Enjoy, and of course, reviews are always much appreciated._

Sitting in a glittering hall, filled with women in fancy dresses and men in even fancier tunics, Tyke felt distinctly out of place. She was the youngest there, although not by much, but everyone else seemed to much older than her, as though the nobility of their positions had aged them. Most of them had this way of looking down their noses at her as though they weren't quite sure what she was, and they were even less sure they wanted to get close enough to find out. The ladies especially, for while they wore their elegant dresses as though well used to the glamour, Tyke felt odd to be wearing skirts, and knew that her hair, cut as short as some of the men's, looked odd over a dress. Since she was little and skinny - not built like a proper lady at all - she wondered if others maybe saw her as a little boy wearing a dress.

It wasn't only the people and the clothes that were odd, but the food and manners as well. Tyke was used to the simple fare and simpler manners of the country folk, and the elaborate manners made her head hurt even as the rich food nauseated her stomach.

At least her earlier question of what it was noble ladies actually did had been answered, although that answer had been far from satisfactory. How anyone could spend so much time sewing and talking truly was beyond Tyke, who spent every minute indoors itching to be back out in the woods. It was a little bit strange, she admitted, because she hadn't minded sitting inside in the villages during the winter, where the women, and some men too, would sit sewing and talk for hours, often by the light of a single lantern. Sometime Tyke would sew with them, or play with the younger children, although she had no idea what Sir Rowland would have thought to know that his young charge engaged in activities so far below her perceived station.

A smoothly dressed man, perhaps twenty years her senior, seemed to appear before her, smiling in what he doubtless thought was an engaging way. "Would you honor me with a dance, my lady?" he asked, politely. While she fought to keep her face blank, Tyke's insides were in turmoil. She couldn't dance anything but the simple country reels that everyone in the villages knew, the ones no one minded if you didn't do very well. How could she excuse herself politely to this man without embarrassing herself by admitting as much? As she struggled for her answer, she looked at the man, and soon found herself disliking what she saw. The man had a strangely oily demeanor, sickly and unpleasant, and it felt as though she would somehow dirty herself by associating with him. It no longer mattered that she didn't know how to dance; she just didn't want to be near this man.

"No, thank you," she said as politely as she could, knowing full well that she was being terribly rude and that if this man was important (as he looked to be) she would hear of it from Rowland later.

The man seemed to think she was being coy, or some such. Tyke had seen the other girls her age flirting with men, but she knew she could never manage the flippant, sweet tones they managed, or affect many of the airs they put on. "I really must insist," he persisted.

Tyke could have sworn than Coban sensed her distress, because he was there beside her chair as though he had always been, giving the man a look that was very cold. If you had just looked at Coban's aristocratic features, you might have forgotten how big the young man actually was, but at times like this he managed to loom over even those taller than him, while drawing on every ounce of icy noble scorn contained within him. He didn't even say anything, but they older man seemed to give a visible start. He made a few polite remarks to Coban before excusing himself, presumably to go talk to an old acquaintance he hadn't seen in a very long time and had only just noticed was present.

"Ye shouldn't be talking to men like that." Following a few moments of further icy silence after the man had left, Coban had finally decided to say something.

"I try not to," Tyke snapped back, annoyed at his tone. As though she had encouraged the man! Honestly, men were all the same. You gave them the time and they thought you were interested in them. Well, not Coban, or Rowland, or Jerril, or some of the others who were like uncles to her, but all the men in the villages. Well, not all of them but… there was always one annoying man who gave the rest a bad reputation. "Honestly, Ban, if you think I even wanted to talk to that ball of slime you're as dumb as he is." Coban looked only slightly mollified.

"I'll be glad to get away from here," he said.

Tyke nodded her agreement vehemently. "Me too."

Ban looked at her quizzically. "I thought ye were enjoying yerself here. Ye seem to like spending time with the other girls."

For a moment, Tyke could think of no response to this obvious bit of foolishness. "Honestly, Ban? You must be crazy. I can't stand them, or Corus." When he big friend seemed about to object, she added, "and if you disagree, then you can spend a day doing embroidery, and tell me how anyone could enjoy it."

Coban grinned at her. "Ye really aren't much of a noble lady, are you Tyke?" Her response was a truly un-ladylike snort. "What say we go see what's to do in the city?"

Tyke grinned. "Rowland will never let me."

"And here I thought ye were a brave squire lass, not some milk-hearted noble's get," Ban teased her.

Knowing he was goading her, Tyke took the bait anyway. "We'll just see about that. Lead on, boy."


End file.
